


If I said you're all I want and more

by yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, i think drumfred might have saved 2017 for me, lots of fluff, on the scotland trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 08:49:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme/pseuds/yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme
Summary: Alfred is really only certain of one thing in his life: that he loves Edward Drummond.The thing he's most unsure over? Whether Edward Drummond loves him back.





	If I said you're all I want and more

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! If like me, you are still very emotional over the perfectness that was episode seven of Victoria, then high fives all around and I hope you enjoy this! Thank you for reading :-)

The first thing that Alfred thinks of when the Queen announces the trip to Scotland is the previous trip they’d been on. 

France, a beautiful country. France, where Drummond had been by his side for days on end, the two of them practically inseparable among the diplomatic wars being fought by Victoria and Albert. 

He remembers lingering glances in carriages, across dining tables (well, practically anywhere, Alfred could and would happily stare at Drummond until the stars collided), and inside jokes that had had them both chortling into their drinks at garden parties. Smiles during walks where they couldn’t quite walk far enough apart, words never said but sent through looks. He remembers, of course, seeing the crystal clear water and the smirk that had crossed Drummond’s face that had made Alfred want to pin him against the nearest tree and kiss him forever. 

Alfred only saw Drummond’s proper smile rarely, but it was the light of his life, and captivated his heart to the extent that when he saw it, he was very likely to just follow the taller man around like a lovesick puppy. 

That smile, which he’d almost become accustomed to seeing in the French court, had disappeared suddenly on the ferry back across to England, leaving Alfred cold without it. The closer they got to London, the closer they got to their homes and the reality that Drummond would marry someone else, the less they had looked at each other and the less they both smiled. 

They hadn’t talked about it, of course, as was eternal in the endless confusion of their relationship that always made Alfred feel as though he was teetering on a precipice, torn between falling off and falling onto his face on the cliff, exhausted but alive (he wasn’t sure which option he preferred). To this day, Alfred couldn’t be sure that Drummond felt that same rush in his chest that he did every time they met, he couldn’t allow himself to be sure, the risk was too great. Whenever he came close to believing it, came closer off the edge, a gust of wind delivered by Drummond’s stern glare would push him straight back again. 

Especially since the announcement of the engagement. Alfred had not stopped hurting since that day, since he stormed off so that Drummond couldn’t see the utter panic which he knew had swept his features. Alfred had never been much of an actor, and hadn’t trusted his face not to betray his ardent desire to his Drummond. 

To this day he was shocked that he hadn’t given himself away, seeing that every time he saw him, he felt like his heart would explode out of his chest, his eyes turned to hearts and his knees weak. He doesn’t understand how simply seeing Drummond had that effect, but it happened every time, reducing Alfred to a grinning mess. 

Since their harsh goodbye they had hardly spoken, Alfred cold shouldering Drummond every time he appeared at the palace, which was often. It hurt him as he did it, but he saw no other way unless he wished himself to be hurt more. He’d let himself fall more deeply when he knew of the engagement, and he could not now carry on this manner if he was ever going to survive. 

He needed to rid himself of Drummond, but hadn’t the faintest idea of how to start. How could he? The man was the best thing that had ever happened to Alfred and he was addicted. 

So a trip to Scotland, he supposed, would be a good thing. He could get some fresh air, clear his head. It didn’t matter that Drummond was coming too. It didn’t matter that in the tiny carriage, Alfred knew how he could position himself exactly so that their knees bumped together when the carriage jolted over faults in the road. It didn’t matter that on the last trip they’d been on together they’d been closer than Alfred’s heart could really handle. 

And it certainly didn’t matter that Scotland was a long, long way from London. 

[][][]

Deep into the Lowlands of Scotland, Alfred stares resolutely out of the small window, unable to think of anything except the man who has been desperately trying to catch his eye for the past four hours. Alfred, to his brain’s happiness but his heart’s turmoil, was successfully ignoring him by instead making various comments about the scenery. 

Both Alfred and Drummond were ignoring the hysterics that Ernest had gone into after Alfred blew off a particularly obvious comment. 

Then, Wilhemina mentions Florence in order to congratulate Drummond on the engagement, and Alfred’s thinning resolve snaps like a cracker. His head stays turned towards the window, but his eyes flick to Drummond, who is already looking right at him, as Alfred somehow knew he would be, their weird understanding being as it was. 

There’s a mixture emotions crossing Drummond’s perfect face. There’s ‘ah, I got you’, but there’s also the pain that Alfred himself is feeling like a knife to his heart at the mention of the engagement. 

Alfred doesn’t pay attention to how Drummond responds, just watches his face out of the corner of his eyes, not daring to look away, silently enjoying the way that Drummond always flashes a gaze back at him, worry etched deep into his face. His desperation to drop the subject of his imminent marriage would almost make Alfred laugh, if he wasn’t so close to crying, as he always seemed to be these days. 

It was almost as if Drummond was upset as Alfred himself was. If he was, then he had a funny way of showing it. 

There had been no outright apology to Alfred, just subtext between them that had kept Alfred up for hours trying to figure it out, staring desperately at the ceiling torn between keeping himself safe and believing that the man he loved might just love him back. 

Alfred turns back to the window. 

Well. 

His plan to get over Drummond certainly wasn’t going very well. 

[][][]

Alfred, who realises quickly that he really had no actual intention of getting over Drummond, gives up completely when he works out ten minutes into the poet’s spiel that he’s been staring at Drummond’s hair the entire time, eyes scanning the neat waves and imagining running his hands through them, wondering how soft Drummond’s hair actually was. 

It was a fairly regular daydream, but surprised him nonetheless because he’d been able to stop himself when he wasn’t in such close proximity to him. But, now, of course, he was sitting right behind him and he was throughly enchanted. He couldn’t see Drummond’s face, but could picture it as clear as day. 

He would look vaguely studious, but also with a frown of boredom between his eyes, the way he often looked during long discussions between Peel and Victoria which Alfred and Drummond were not allowed to participate in, but had to be present for. Those meetings were their favourite times of staring at each other. Everyone else in the room was too distracted to notice Alfred and Drummond gazing desperately at one another like there was no tomorrow. 

Alfred knew that was how he’d look because of the tension of his shoulders, suggesting that he was trying desperately to suppress a yawn, the same as everyone else in the room. 

Next to him, Ernest leaves, patting Alfred on the shoulder, but Alfred hardly notices because he’s so busy gazing at the Prime Minister’s Secretary, who is shifting slightly in his seat with a studious frown on his face and he tries not to make too much noise. 

And then Alfred gets the giggles at something the poet says and Drummond looks back at him with a smirk that he tries to make look disapproving. But Alfred simply smiles back and isn’t sure whether to feel offended or confused when Drummond blushes and turns straight back to face the front of the room. 

Alfred feels like crying in relief when Albert cuts the poet off short, but then feels like crying in sorrow when it’s time to go to bed and he has to take Drummond out of his sight for the first time in twelve hours. 

[][][]

The next day sees them rise bright and early, the Queen having requested to explore the surrounding landscape and her court only too eager to join her. Alfred silently notes that Drummond looks incredibly dashing in his coat and hat, and it’s all that he thinks about as they ride to the river, somewhat relieved and somewhat distraught that Drummond isn’t in the same carriage as him. 

He barely pays attention to what Wilhemina is saying to him, and although he feels guilty about it, he doesn’t feel bad enough to respond to any of her attempts at chatter, just thinks about Drummond smirking at him as he had done when he’d caught Alfred’s starstruck face at his appearance that morning. 

Drummond had opened his mouth to say something, but then Ernest had burst onto the scene, separating the two and leaving Alfred to despair over Drummond’s attractiveness on his own.

Down by the river, Alfred is amused when Drummond requests a fishing rod, but declines his offer to join him, knowing himself to be useless at the art and having no desire to learn, assuming that it would only end up with one or both of them in a cold Scottish river, which wouldn’t be nearly as pleasant as a French pool. Besides, his view was infinitely much better here, he decided, watching Drummond stand on the rocks and fruitlessly throw the line of his fishing rod into the fast flowing river. Further upstream, the Queen and Prince are giggling together, distracting most of the courtiers, but Alfred has eyes only for Drummond. 

Well, really, where else did you expect him to be looking?

When Wilhemina asks him about the scenery, he replies honestly that it’s heavenly because, after all, it is. It doesn’t matter that she’s talking about the mountains and he’s talking about Drummond’s ass in those trousers. 

Minor details, minor details. 

[][][]

The minute that they lose Victoria and Albert, Alfred lets his gaze fall on Drummond, who is also out of the carriages and has stress furrowing his forehead. Every instinct in Alfred wants instantly to take him in his arms, to tell him it’s all going to be okay, but he thinks if he did that someone might catch onto his less than platonic feelings for Drummond, so instead he follows him into the woods as soon as he asks, Drummond’s eyes flicking to him so quickly that Alfred’s heart flutters just the tiniest bit. 

He doesn’t question that Drummond requested him specifically to search with him, just focuses on finding the Queen and ignoring the protective instinct in his chest that wants him to take Drummond’s hand to comfort him. Alfred just walks alongside him, head nearly always turning to inspect every corner of the woods, keeping Drummond always within his sight just in case he tries anything rash. 

Alfred is surprised when Drummond comes to a cliff edge and stops, peering down it with a thoughtful expression on his face. He’s about to say ‘penny for your thoughts’ to the taller man, but he offers them without prodding, out of character. 

He’s slightly scared for and by Drummond when he mentions that if they fell it could be months before they were found. He’s not sure if he’s talking about the Queen and Prince, or about Alfred and Drummond himself. 

When Drummond admits his fears to him, Alfred feels that deadly hope resurge in his chest, and his traitorous heart, immune to all common sense, almost makes him suggest that perhaps they should go, just leave and get out of here. Emphasis on almost, because as though Drummond reads his mind he changes the subject, mentioning the Illiad instead to distract them both from what could surely never be. 

The discussion confuses Alfred greatly, especially Drummond’s attitude towards the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus, because Alfred, in the vaguely poetic state that Scotland has sent him into, is seeing the relationship between the two tragic heroes as something that could very well form between the two of them. Not that he’d mention it out loud, and instead he drops it at Drummond’s confusion, not letting his heart desire too much of a romance with his Drummond. 

Still, he cannot resist smiling his best, most winning smile to Drummond, tapping his arm as if that will convey his thoughts and walks off, not missing the confused yet almost hopeful smile that turns up the corners of Drummond’s mouth slightly. 

But Alfred doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t. He just smirks and carries on what has turned into a vaguely pleasant stroll.

He especially doesn’t think about it when Drummond turns the subject unexpectedly back around to his engagement, he really, really doesn’t think about it when Drummond admits that he could never love Florence. (It’s a revelation that makes Alfred want to flip a few tables and yell a bit, but seeing as there are currently no tables to flip he controls himself and bites his lip.)

Alfred doesn’t dwell too long on Drummond’s confession, because he thinks that if he does he could just end up screaming ‘but could you ever love me?’ and he knows even in his lovesick state that doing that would not end well. 

So instead he smirks again (he believes in life that smirking is the very essence of flirting, especially with serious looking politicians), and walks off, having virtually forgotten the reason that he was walking in the woods with Drummond anyway. 

Still, despite his self-proclaimed prowess in the art of smirk-tation, as he coined the term in his head, he doesn’t really know what to do when Drummond smirks back. He considers melting into a puddle, but realises that’s not possible so instead just walks on and tries not to kiss him, because, as he has to remind himself far too often, he cannot just kiss Drummond, no matter how beautiful he is. 

Arriving back with the others, no one else has had any success finding the Queen either and Alfred has to remind himself that he can’t just kiss Drummond, no matter how sad he looks. 

[][][]

Back at Atholl, Drummond does not cease in his pacing until a remarkably unconcerned Ernest finally snaps and tells him that he’s being ridiculous, shoving a glass of wine into his hand and forcing him to just simply stand, being unable to coax him into seating. Drummond sends an apologetic look in the general direction of the room, and when his eyes meet Alfred’s, Alfred tries his best to smile. 

Drummond smiles back, if only for the briefest of seconds before he becomes engrossed in staring at the fire, his thoughts quite obviously elsewhere. 

After a while of the Duchess’s complaints, Drummond confesses his guilt over the matter, as Alfred somehow knew he would. Alfred has his encouraging speech all ready to go, having been preparing it for the past twenty minutes whilst Drummond’s face had turned gradually more worried, but he’s startled by the Duchess’s sudden agreement with Drummond’s self-deprecating comment. 

After reminding himself sternly that he can’t yell at old ladies, Alfred reduces his speech to a simple sentence of encouragement that both scolds the Duchess and boosts Drummond, which Drummond smiles at him gratefully for, although Alfred knows that Drummond doesn’t believe him. 

He’s about to say more when the Duchess’s words finally make poor Harriet Sutherland storm out, and then Alfred has to forget his intended encouragement to Drummond in order to calmly tell the Duchess why she can’t say things like that. 

By the time he’s finished his (very civil) rant, Drummond has gone. 

[][][]

Alfred finds Drummond pacing again, this time along an upstairs corridor away from all the soldiers and courtiers. He can’t help but smiling when Drummond spots him, and doesn’t look remotely surprised to see him. 

“Alfred,” he says calmly, walking over to him with a slight shake in his voice, “I should have known you’d find me.”

“You bet I would,” Alfred replies as calmly as he can, keeping a light tone to his voice and a grin fixed to his features in order to encourage Drummond and relax him as best he can, “come, my man, you need to eat something,”

Drummond pulls the mildly irritated face that Alfred knew he would, but nods nonetheless, sitting down abruptly on a chair against the wall of the wide, drafty corridor. 

Alfred, watching the various expressions cross that handsome face, doesn’t say a word, simply waiting for Drummond to speak. 

And, of course, because Alfred is never wrong when it comes to predicting Drummond’s movements, Drummond does speak. 

“I feel like it’s all my fault,” he begins, and Alfred sits down next to him, gently leaning towards him whilst Drummond stares resolutely at the painting framed on the opposite wall. “I should have stopped her, or should have suggested I ride with them,”

“You know they wouldn’t have listened,” Alfred tells him with a smile, and is rewarded by a slight laugh from Drummond. 

“That’s true,” he admits, looking towards Alfred with a sudden turn of his head and making him very aware of how closely they’re sitting together. But neither of them look away. 

In fact, Drummond has the sheer audacity to lick his lips. 

Then he smirks that smirk that destroys all of Alfred’s resolve like nothing else in this world, and Alfred forces himself to stand up suddenly, making Drummond jump backwards. 

“Come on,” Alfred tells him, feeling his features soften just looking at the stressed puppy that Drummond has turned into, remembering their current Queen-less predicament. “Dinner’s served, and if we’re not quick then Ernest will eat both our portions,”

Drummond laughs again, and takes the hand that Alfred offers to pull himself up. 

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,’ he agrees as they begin to walk downstairs again. 

[][][]

When nighttime falls and there’s still no sign of Victoria, Alfred knows that there’s no way he’s ever going to persuade Drummond to get any sleep tonight. He just manages with small smiles of encouragement to stop the man sending a letter to Peel, but succeeds in getting him no further than a downstairs armchair by the fire where Drummond collapses without speaking and begins to stare melancholily into the thick flames. 

Alfred doesn’t say a word, just sits down opposite him and dozes with him there until the next morning, their eyes connecting every so often then drifting apart again as though they can’t quite bear the intensity of the other’s gaze. 

Whilst he’s asleep, he doesn’t see the way that Drummond looks at him as though he’s every thing important in this world. 

[][][]

Morning comes, and the soldiers head out again, Alfred exasperatedly dragging a sleepy but determined Drummond back inside when he tries to follow them with his hair unbrushed and only one sleeve of his jacket on. Drummond fights him initially, insisting that he help find his queen, but Alfred just raises his eyebrows at him until Drummond sighs, admitting defeat, and excuses himself to get dressed.

Alfred stares after him with something close to longing as he tiredly traipses up the stairs to his room, then rolls his eyes at an amused Ernest and goes to grab some breakfast. 

[][][]

When word reaches Alfred that the Queen has been found, he’s out of his seat in a second, brushing straight past the messenger who brought the news and practically sprinting up the stairs in order to tell Drummond the news. 

As soon as he goes into the room, Drummond turns to look at him with such desperation, but when Alfred smiles back at him relief floods his face, lighting up the room around them with the softness that fills his wide eyes. 

“They’ve been found,” he tells him, although it’s hardly necessary because Drummond is already crossing the room to crush Alfred in a relieved hug which both swells his heart and sinks it. 

It’s officially the best hug of Alfred’s whole entire life, including the time that the Duke of Wellington hugged him because he got too excited about winning the horse race they’d both been at at the time. 

Drummond is warm and soft, the material of his jacket comforting under Alfred’s hands, and he smells so good that the time that they’re hugging, although it’s really only mere seconds, lasts centuries to Alfred’s brain, which is swimming in the fact that Drummond is hugging him, hugging him tightly as though they’re the only two people in the world. His grip around him is tight and for a second Alfred can almost imagine the embrace as something tinged with romance, a fantasy that continues when they pull back with their arms still around each other and Alfred sees a look in Drummond’s eyes that stops his world dead. 

The look is desperate, needy and every thing that Alfred is feeling in his own heart. The look draws their heads together, Drummond’s fingers trailing softly over Alfred’s back. 

They come to their senses though, reluctantly, pulling back and exiting the room as quickly as Alfred had come, muttering hurriedly thought out excuses to each other about wanting to greet the Queen as soon as she arrived. 

Alfred wants to cry, he really does. 

[][][]

He has to stop himself from laughing at the sheer relief that loosens Drummond’s shoulders at the sight of the Queen, although he lets out a little laughter which makes Drummond turn. Drummond, of course, knows exactly the source of Alfred’s mirth and sends him a look which is probably meant to be angry but doesn’t scare Alfred in the slightest, Alfred just sending him a particularly smug smirk in response which makes Drummond blush scarlet. 

Alfred doesn’t think about what that blush could mean, too caught up in everything happening so fast to possibly try and decode the messages being sent between them. He almost mourns for the days where he’d see Drummond for half a minute and then obsess over decoding those thirty seconds for days, rather than this where he’s there, all the time, being adorable and lovely and leaving Alfred absolutely clueless as to his intentions and feelings towards him. At least then he knew vaguely where he stood. 

The precipice is getting thinner, but Alfred has never in his life felt more alive. They’re so close to something, but what that something is is still just out of Alfred’s grasp, teasing him and making his gut wrench with every emotion under the sun. He never knew one human could feel this much, until he met Drummond. 

Drummond looks at him again when the Queen passes and Alfred just stares back, too engulfed in Drummond’s eyes to do anything more. They look at each other until a passing Ernest clears his throat, making them both jump and walk off blushing in separate directions. 

[][][]

That evening, Alfred finds himself drawn towards Drummond, even more so than usual, so that when the Queen leads the procession into the evening’s entertainment, Alfred finds himself at the back with Drummond, a night of freedom right within their reach. 

It’s almost as if Alfred had spent the whole afternoon planning it or something. 

Drummond holds back on the threshold, ceasing to walk almost as if reading Alfred’s mind, sending him that smirk again that lets him know that he knows he’s up to something. 

“I think we’d have much more fun if we joined the servants, don’t you think?” Alfred asks quietly, delighting in the way that Drummond’s face lights up, his figure instantly turning away from the doorway and backwards the way they came. “After you,” Alfred adds, both of them chuckling like schoolboys ditching maths class as they jog away from a dull evening and towards a fun one. Their laughter sounds right together, a mixing of sounds that Alfred could really get used to. 

At the dance Alfred finds Drummond instantly loosening up after the stress of the previous day, his shoulders lowering and his face splitting into that breathtaking smile that has Alfred chugging down his drink into record time so that he doesn’t have to look at it and risk kissing Drummond like he so desires to. 

He feels alive whilst spinning around the dance floor with Drummond, their hands clasped together and Drummond’s laughter ringing like music in Alfred’s ears, until his laughter and his smile and his beautiful beautiful eyes are all that Alfred is aware of. 

They dance together, in the way that Alfred had so wanted them to at the Queen’s ball months ago, and no one questions it. The woods are too full of laughter for anyone to question why the two English gentlemen were looking at each other as though the other one was the sun, and Alfred was very grateful for it. 

He didn’t understand Drummond, he really didn’t. Because, with the way that Drummond was looking at him right now, he could almost let himself believe that Drummond loved him in that way that he loved Drummond. 

Almost. 

[][][]

Tired and slightly drunk, the pair find themselves by a lake edge in the sunset, shrugging off their jackets and making their way to look out over the water. Alfred takes another swig of the whiskey, somehow knowing that he needs a little courage, and follows his heart to where his Drummond stands by the lake, looking angelic in the sunshine. It’s calm and quiet and suddenly every thing seems perfectly clear. 

Alfred has never been more in love, never in his whole life, and he walks over to stand besides Drummond on shaking legs, his heart pounding as his Drummond turns towards him. 

“Midsummer evenings are so enchanting, don’t you think?” Alfred murmurs softly, hesitant to destroy the silence yet also desperate to say something to convince himself that what he’s experiencing isn’t a glorious dream. 

And good god, the way Drummond looks at him then? 

That’s when Alfred knows that Drummond loves him. He knows it in his heart, in his soul, and is suddenly astounded that he hadn’t seen it before, because looking back he knows it was there. 

It’s several seconds before either of them reacts, because despite being in shock Alfred knows that his face is displaying the same emotion, the same raw adoration, letting Drummond know that Alfred loves him, loves him more than life itself. His heart strings are tied so tight they’re about to burst, watching that realisation cross Drummond’s face, watching hope etch itself into his features as Alfred has always hoped it would. 

Then Drummond leans forward and kisses him, and Alfred’s heart explodes in a burst of light that fills him up from head to toe. The kiss is short and sweet, a chaste and tentative peck on the lips which is a surprise and a relief to both of them. When they pull back to look at each other, another wave of ease passes over their hearts and the lack of rejection, so that they kiss again, this time longer, both of them getting used to the sensation of having everything they’ve ever wanted right there in front of them. 

Alfred grabs Drummond’s collar in order to keep himself standing, pulling their bodies closer together and letting the tips of his fingers skim the wispy waves of hair at the base of Drummond’s neck. When Drummond slips an arm around his waist, Alfred feels a warmth spread across his chest which eclipses the feeling of being in full sunlight, an calming and immediate warmth that Alfred never wants to end.

Resting their foreheads together, he simply revels in having Drummond, no, wait, Edward, his Edward, so close to him. Their breath hitches in sync, displaying both their elation and surprise, and Alfred rubs his nose to Edward’s in a way he hopes conveys all of his feelings. 

And, if it doesn’t, it doesn’t matter, because for the first time in their relationship, Alfred is sure of exactly where he stands. He fell headfirst off of the precipice and into the arms of Edward, and he’s never felt more at home. 

Their hands are clasped together in the bright evening sunlight, and Alfred doesn’t think he’s ever going to let go.


End file.
